


Losing That Moment

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AU - where Fukurodani lost to Nekoma, Gen, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 23:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a vague feeling of wonder about it all, of disbelief – not only that they’d lost, but that their Captain, Bokuto Koutarou, was taking it so well.</p>
<p>(Too fucking well. He heard Konoha say later.)</p>
<p>Fukurodani didn't get to Nationals. Their story was done. And Bokuto has no idea what to do next. </p>
<p>Then he receives a text from a most unlikely source...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing That Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColonelChanSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColonelChanSan/gifts).



> So ... this is a treat for ColonelChanSan. 
> 
> Okay, so I've already written a story for you, but this prompt of yours intrigued me, and I ended up writing this.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (You might have guessed but this was written before the result of the Owls V Cats match was decided - ooops)

For a long stretch of time, it was all he could do to block it from his mind. The noise from the crowd, that deathly silence and then the shock mixed with cheers, the howls and whoops as the game ended left him oblivious to all but the last few seconds. That whip of air across his cheek, a violent thud, and his hand’s reaction, too slow, too slow, always too slow to reach. 

( _Move, Koutarou!_ )

Akaashi had sunk to the floor. Sarukui had fallen to his knees. Komi on the sidelines had screamed, but Koutarou stood, one arm still outstretched as he tried so hard to make sense of the scene around him. He stared across the net, stared right into the eyes of the boy who’d slammed the ball past him, watched as the incredulity on his face switched to utter joy, and saw him finally receive his teams’ acclaim.

And Koutarou wondered why he didn’t feel like dying, ‘cause this wasn’t the way it was s’posed to go.

Unless he was already dead.

( _Dumb, dumb, I ain’t dead.)_

He lined up. He corralled the team – his team – into place. He shook hands with Kuroo and Kai - he remembered that – and guessed he musta worked the line. He watched Akaashi, polite to the last, his white knuckles the only sign he was breaking. His head up, Koutarou caught sight of Onaga hunched over, twisting his fingers into the hem of his shirt as he muttered ‘well dones’ and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. And there was a vague feeling of wonder about it all, of disbelief – not only that they’d lost, but that their Captain, Bokuto Koutarou, was taking it so well.

_(Too fucking well._ He heard Konoha say later.)

“That was Haiba-kun, huh?” a voice said.

(His own, and he wasn’t sure he’d said it aloud, but he guessed he must have done because Akaashi nodded.)

***

 

He’s tapping a pen on the desk in class, staring out of the window, and not paying his sensei the slightest attention. It’s like she’s been told to expect nothing from him today, ‘cause’ she’s not asked him any questions, accepted his bedraggled and empty homework journal with an air of resignation but no comment, and let him remain unengaged. His classmates stare at him when they think he’s not looking, with a shrug now rather than eagerness because they expect nothing from him, too.

He _was_ Bokuto-san, Captain of Fukurodani Volleyball Team, loud and irascible. Now he’s Koutarou-kun, who has the stench of defeat pervading his every sense, too shell-shocked to question why.

 

“Do you think...”  He stops himself from asking, but it’s too late because he’s already slid into the seat next to Akaashi during lunch.

Akaashi doesn’t look up. “Do I think what, Bokuto-san?” he asks.

There’s no ‘How are you?’ or ‘Where have you been for a week?’ or ‘Are you coming back to help us practise?’  or any of the questions Koutarou would have pestered someone with. Akaashi just accepts that he’s not been around as much, that he’s needed to not be at the gym. Besides, it’s better this way because new people will come in, and the current first and second years need time alone to blend.

(He buries the thought right down deep in his gut that they might be suffering, that it’s possible they actually miss him. Because no one could seriously miss him. Not now.)

“Nah.” He flaps his hand. “It don’t matter.”

“No, please, ask me.”

“It’s prolly dumb.”

There’s an almost smile hovering on Akaashi’s lips. “Go ahead.”

“Uh, okay. Right, like ... uh ... Summer Camp.”

Akaashi’s hand stays around his cup. “What about it?”

“We practised with those guys, right?” he mumbles. Akaashi says nothing, gives nothing, remains impassive as Koutarou trips over his words. “D-did we miss something?”

“We practised with a lot of people,” Akaashi starts to say, but then his mouth droops and as he lifts the cup to his mouth his hand is trembling so much some of the juice slops down the side. “You mean the third gym.”

Koutarou nods and gulps and his mouth is dry but he’s forgotten to buy a drink and his water bottle’s in his mouldering kit bag somewhere in his locker. “Haiba-kun ...” And he can’t continue because the sight of that hand, its sudden, fast attack is all that he can see.

“What about him?” Akaashi asks. He’s weary.

“It’s like ... we practised against him ...  We .... He ... And Kuroo... his serves... like ...” He swallows. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. How the fuck had Kuroo kept that trick quiet? “They all got better, Akaashi-kun,” he croaks, and leaves unsaid the paralysing fear that he’s been left behind.

There’s an imperceptible nod, but Akaashi doesn’t speak. Because what can he say? Akaashi wanted this as much as any of them. He has another year, but this team were near perfect – the best Koutarou can remember.

Yet they lost.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, his voice quiet and soft, but for all that, there’s something sharp buried in the folds. “We could do with you back at practise.”

“Meh.”

“The guys need to know that life goes on,” Akaashi continues. “That losing isn’t the end of everything. Dejected mode in a game is one thing-”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll think about it,” he mutters. And suddenly, Koutarou doesn’t want to sit there anymore. He picks up his orange and the cookie he was going to save for the walk home, and gets to his feet.

“You’re still the Captain, Bokuto.”

 It sounds like an order, but Koutarou doesn’t respond. Dejected mode was never like this. In a game, there was still the possibility of tosses to come his way, but now there’s nothing.

 

It’s nine days after he –no they- lost, and Koutarou hasn’t made it back to practise. It’s not a requirement now, and it’s not like he’s been neglecting his fitness. He’s started running more, but also taking time out, eating crap and watching dumb TV with his sister curled into him.

**< <Bokuto-san?>>**  He stares at the message, not recognising the number. But it’s obviously someone who knows him, so he taps out a reply, shifting a little, to the irritation of Etsuko.

“Hey,” she grumbles, and settles back on the cushions instead of his stomach.

He apologises, still scowling at the number.

**< <yea>> **he sends.

**< <Sorry about Nationals.>>**

Huh? Who the fuck would send him that?

Now.

It’s over.

It’s done.

He don’t need reminders. He’s fine as he is.

Ah, yeah, wind up merchants. And there’s only one he knows who’d provoke like this, and musta borrowed a phone just to wind him up.

**< <Alright kuroo. Don’t need to rub my nose in it.>>**

The reply speeds back to him before he can switch his phone off. **< <Bokuto-san. This is Tsukishima from Karasuno.>>**

Uh?

**< <How did you get my number?>>**

**< <You insisted I took it last summer. In fact you added it to my phone.>>**

Koutarou laughs out loud, and gives his first grin for days. Next to him, Etsuko elbows his chest.

“I’m trying to listen, Niichan,” she complains.

“Sorry,” he mouths, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.

**< <o yeah I did. How u doing, Tsukki-kun?>>**

**< <Fine.>>** Koutarou can practically see the boy’s mouth quiver in disapproval at being addressed that way, but he hasn’t stopped texting, so maybe it’s important.

**< <So why u texting now? U need advice??>>**

There’s a silence. His sister glares his way, so Koutarou gets to his feet, and wanders to the door, leaning against the wall as he waits for Tsukishima.

**< <We qualified for Nationals.>>**

**< < I know>> **

_Wow, thanks for reminding me. Did I really piss you off that much?_

**< <I want to thank you for your time in Tokyo.>>**

**< <ok>>**

**< <You were right. I sucked.>>**

Bokuto smiles a little seeing that, imagining the quotation marks the boy’s probably put round the word in his mind. **< <Nah you were always decent>>**

**< <I wasn’t enjoying it, but I am now. At least I’m enjoying it more than I used to.>>**

**< < gr8>>** he types, pausing before he sends it, testing the ache inside of him. But he means it, he’s genuinely happy that the kid’s enjoying his game, ‘cause potential don’t mean squat if your heart ain’t in it. **< <Is that what you wanted to say>>**  

**< <Karasuno are excited about possibly playing Nekoma>>** comes the reply... and then another pause.

**< <and u want advice on how to beat them? Sawamuras put u up to this right???>>**

**< <No!>>** The answer feels hurried. **< <There’s a big deal about Nekoma because there’s a rivalry going back years.>>**

**< <Yeah >>**  He’s heard all of this before from Kuroo. How he wanted to make it happen. Like it was destiny. And Bokuto had laughed, ‘cause what did destiny have to do with anything? He’d thought it was his destiny not just to qualify, but to win the goddamn championship. To stand on that stage, hold that fucking trophy high in the air and hoot his heart out.

**< <But I wanted you to know that I’d have preferred the chance to battle against you again, Bokuto-san.>>**

Oh. Something swells in his throat, and it’s like the mass of tears he’s been holding back have collected there and are threatening to choke him. He should reply to Tsukishima-kun, say thanks, at least, but his fingers feel numb and clumsy. He stares back at the message, but it’s all a blur, ‘cause all he can see, all he can feel is a ball rifling past him.

The dam bursts.

“What’s the matter, Niichan?”

“Nothin’,” he gulps, and wipes his eyes on his sleeve.

**< <Thanks>>** he finally replies. **< <Maybe another time, yeah?>>**

**< <I’d like that.>>**

***

The following day, he goes back to practise, and wonders how he could have stayed away, for volleyball’s been his life for far longer than not. He watches Konoha being surprisingly patient with a first year wing spiker (although it’s possible Akinori’s patient with everyone except him). Komi’s receiving jump serves as if they’re nothing (as if Kuroo never got one past him). Onaga powers spike after spike across the net, while Washio’s on the sidelines, breaking for water. At the net, Akaashi is tossing to the first years, his eyes assessing their every mannerism, giving advice when necessary, praising when needed. (And that’s odd, too, because Akaashi’s praise used to consist of a small smile and one word, but now he has a wider smile, one that doesn’t really seem natural, as if he’s trying too hard to make up for... _Me._ )

At first Koutarou can’t see Sarukui and he thinks perhaps that he’s taken the loss too hard, that the ever-present smile has finally cracked. Then he appears, late as he often is on a Tuesday, breezing in with an easy apology on his lips, brushing past Koutarou as if there’s nothing surprising about him malingering in the doorway instead of leaping around on court.

He won’t get that rematch if he stays where he is.

 The smell hits him as he steps further in, of sweaty shirts and trainers, hard work and effort. And Bokuto- _san_ finds his voice again.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he cries. “What’s up, fellas?”

 

It’s when he’s showered, rubbing his hair with a towel, and watching Saru tease another scowl out of Washio, that Bokuto remembers something.  Sidling over to his jacket, he pulls out his phone.

**< <’Course now I got your number im gonna call u all the time, Tsukki-chan!!!>>**

The answer comes back as he’s tugging on his trousers, and Koutarou thrusts his head back to bellow out a laugh (causing everyone around him to smile on instinct) when he reads the answer.

Two words, heaving with resignation.

**< <Please don’t.>>**


End file.
